


i could lie (say i like it like that).

by katarama



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Anxiety, Character Study, Cunnilingus descriptions, Exes, F/M, Fairy Circles, Lingerie, M/M, Niall Lynch Lives, Sexual Fantasy, hello it is having feelings about Declan Lynch hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29012133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: Declan isn’t what Ashley is, isn’t what most of his classmates are, and hasn’t been for years.  The world is made of powerful and dangerous people, and Declan’s job is to sell them lies and dreams beautiful enough to spare him (to spare Ronan, to spare Matthew) for another day.
Relationships: Ashley/Declan Lynch, Declan Lynch/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	i could lie (say i like it like that).

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verbyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/gifts).



> This is a belatedly uploaded fic I wrote for my QPR, Lee, for our Declan-themed Christmas fic exchange. This fic fills the prompts “anything inspired by Harry’s ‘lights out’ video” and “declan/any of his gfs (or ((older)) gentlemen friends, cough) + billie eilish's ‘when the party's over’”.

ash: declan are you coming to the party tonight

ash: declan lynch please tell me you’re coming to missy’s party 

ash: i know you were invited and I know raven boys are coming

ash: there will be booze 

ash: and, more importantly, me

ash: missy said you said you had some insurance thing with your dad but I know that isn’t true

ash: i’ve met your dad and there’s no way he works in insurance

Declan feels the messages buzzing in his pocket before he sees them.

He leaves his phone in his pocket when he works. He knows tonight should be easy, a quick, in and out job. _Something you can handle alone, just please, for god’s sake, don’t get distracted_ , his father said. Niall didn’t elaborate. Niall Lynch never had to explain himself. Declan was expected to obey without question. He told Declan to meet an old friend of his for a sale. He told Declan what they were selling, how much to charge, the name of the contact, and the meeting location. He told Declan that he shouldn’t drive there, that he should be dropped off nearby and should walk the rest of the way.

Declan thinks the warning not to get distracted is odd, but misplaced when directed at him. Ronan gets distracted. Matthew is pure distraction, as a constant state of being. Declan does not get distracted. His brothers have the luxury of distraction because he works hard to secure it for them, but he does not have that luxury himself. 

Checking his phone while working is exactly the kind of distraction he thinks his father is warning him to steer clear of. Never checking his phone until the job is done, unless he is waiting on an explicit signal, is a firm rule when he’s working for Niall.

Most of those rules are ingrained by now. They keep the sourness, the restless and the tension, of anxiety (of fear) from spilling over. They keep him focused, keep his voice even and steady, keep the blood pumping in his chest instead of spilling out onto the pavement.

A friend drops him off outside a clothing store in downtown Henrietta, and Declan walks the rest of the way himself. He follows a long gravel road to a clearing edged by trees. If Niall hadn’t told him to expect this, Declan might think he was in the wrong place. There aren’t any buildings in sight. He can only make out a bonfire with a person sitting next to it and a crowd of people gathered nearby along the woods, illuminated by the moon and the faint glow of the fire. 

It’s when he gets to the end of the gravel road that he feels the music.

It’s quiet, but it rings through the open air, through the soles of his feet, through the pulsing of his heartbeat. Declan doesn’t know what it is, but it tugs at something in him, pulls at an impulse to get closer to where the people are. He knows, instinctively, that the music is coming from the crowd of people. He wants to find the source of that music.

As he walks towards the crowd (as he pretends it’s only the man by the fire he’s walking toward), the throng of people comes into sharper focus. They are dancing, he realizes, or something like it. Some sensual version of it that Declan has only seen described in fiction, bare skin pressed close and wandering hands and heads tipped backwards and eyes closed. Words bubble up in Declan’s head for what they must be experiencing, words like _pleasure_ or _ecstasy_ that would sound sticky and charged on his tongue. It digs in the back of his head, the way it must feel to have that much human contact. To feel so good in something to be able to get lost in it.

It’s only when he gets closer that a careful look reveals the fluttering of a wing in the corner of his eye, a pair of horns on top of someone’s head, the shimmering of scales reflecting the dancing of the flames. 

It’s enough to break the moment. _Don’t get distracted_ , his father’s warning echoes in his head. He cements it, before his thoughts stray. He can’t manage to block the music from the back of his skull, can’t completely guard himself against the urge to go to where the crowd is. But he can tear his eyes away to the man by the fire, watching him, waiting for him. He can follow through and get his job done and get out of here before his resolve weakens.

The actual business of it is easy. There is no threatening with guns, no knives pressed at his throat if he doesn’t hand over the dreamed item. Niall’s contact pays the agreed upon price without any haggling. Niall was not overstating things when he characterized the man as an old friend — the contact seems happy to see a Lynch. There’s a lilt to his voice that sounds familiar, that doesn’t sound dissimilar to Niall’s, when he tells Declan he looks like his father, when he welcomes Declan to stay longer and catch up. 

The music still pulses through Declan’s blood. Declan politely declines. 

The walk away from the music is harder than the walk towards it, but Declan steels himself, puts one foot in front of the other. Denying himself things he wants is an everyday task for Declan. 

He knows that the magical world holds no place for him besides this, doing the dirty work his father is too busy and important to do himself. He knows that the joy and wonder in it does not belong to him, and he won’t be tricked into thinking otherwise.

* * *

The music fades again when Declan’s feet hit the gravel road, and the exhaustion hits all at once. It weighs heavy on his shoulders, on his eyelids. His back and neck are tense and there are indents from his nails in the palms of his hands. The burn of anxiety and the flash of magic are gone, and all that is left is boring, mild Declan, standing in the ashes.

He walks back to where the gravel meets the sidewalk and keeps walking to downtown Henrietta, almost to Main Street. He starts turning his focus to how he’s going to find his way home. He didn’t know how long the sale would take, and he didn’t want to tell anyone to wait around. Asking Aurora or Ronan to come pick him up is a nonstarter, and Henrietta is too small to have a functioning bus system. 

Declan finds a bench to sit on and finally pulls out his phone. He is hit by a wave of texts.

ash: declan 

ash: i know we both said we wouldn’t do this again 

ash: i know that means i can’t ask you for things anymore

ash: but does it change your mind if i’m wearing the red lacy bra you always liked

ash: and the matching panties too

ash: my parents are out tonight

ash: that douchebag guy in your calc class keeps trying to hook up with gansey’s sister and you would know just the right thing to say right now

ash: i wish you would at least respond

Declan reads them and rereads them and rereads them again. In other circumstances, he knows how he would react to the texts. Images of the lingerie (of her in them, of him taking them off her) flash into his head unbidden. When it’s a pleasure he’s allowed himself before, he could reason, it’s okay to be weak sometimes. They had stopped when she realized she wouldn’t get anything more from him, emotionally, when she realized he was Kevlar-strong layers of secretive under his carefully constructed boring shell. But the chemistry was never a question.

That world seems miles away from him right now, though. The world of high school parties and Helen Gansey’s sharp red nails and drinking games and Ashley curling into his side smelling of sugar-sweet perfume, whispering into his ear about what she’s wearing underneath her dress. The craving for touch hasn’t left Declan, may even be stronger than before, flashes of bare skin brushing and fingers curling around hips burned into his brain, contact so casual and intimate he can feel it lingering even with the call of the music gone.

He could text Ashley back. He could ask her to come get him, and she’d be sober (though no one expected it from her, though everyone else was two drinks past tipsy), and she wouldn’t ask questions, because she learned fast that Declan wouldn’t answer them. She would look at him with that familiar worry in her eyes (because she was always twice as smart, twice as observant as anyone gave her credit for), but she would only ask him where he wanted to go. He’d say wherever she wanted, and she’d take him back to hers, and when he asked why, she’d say _because the Barns isn’t home to you_ or _because this is what you needed_. 

And she would be right, but he wouldn’t confirm it, not when he let his fingers skim up along her bare thighs to drag her panties back down her hips, not when she tugged his hair until he put his mouth where she wanted it, not when he wrung a second, a third orgasm out of her, his lips covered in her slick and both of them beyond words.

She thought he wasn’t giving her enough, but the fact that she knew anything about what Declan needed without him ever saying it out loud was how Declan knew they should end things. The fact that she understood, when Declan thought he had kept himself hidden, made Declan feel too seen, too transparent. He always knew one day she would ask the right questions and read the right answers from his face, and then it’d be too late for both of them. 

It was better this way, really. Because Declan isn’t what she is, isn’t what most of his classmates are, and hasn’t been for years. The world is made of powerful and dangerous people, and Declan’s job is to sell them lies and dreams beautiful enough to spare him (to spare Ronan, to spare Matthew) for another day. Today wasn’t out of the ordinary for Declan, wasn’t remarkable in its danger. It was an easy day. But that says too much about the way Declan lives his life, always one wrong move away from everything crashing down on him and taking out everyone else with him in the chaos.

He does not text Ashley back. 

He scrolls through his message chains and finally settles on a name, opens the chat and types a quick text. _Are you free tonight?_ it says, simple and direct. He has no messy feelings to spare in the form of words tonight.

 _Always for you, sweetheart_ comes almost too quickly.

A few more messages are exchanged, Declan giving his location, receiving an ETA. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and waits five minutes, then ten, before a motorcycle pulls up to the curb. The rider pulls off his helmet and a man, salt and pepper hair and crinkles framing his eyes, smiles at him.

“You need somewhere to go tonight?” he asks, and the relief finally hits Declan, that he is almost done, that he is almost away from here. He is a motorcycle ride away from being stripped down and laid out on the softest bed he’s ever felt, the only connection to his real life hanging on the wall, careful brushstrokes that were dreamed instead of painted. The man is someone who only knows him for being Niall Lynch’s son. The man is someone who doesn’t need to know who Declan really is as long as Declan is begging under his hands for release.

The man is someone who sees Declan, but doesn’t know him, doesn’t understand him, and doesn’t want to.

Declan takes the helmet offered and gets on the back of the motorcycle. The wind pulls his hair and tugs at his clothes, and for someone else it may feel freeing, but it just makes Declan more tired.

(His phone buzzes only twice more that night. He checks it when the man goes to the bathroom to wash up, and when he reads the messages, he wishes he hadn’t.

ash: i miss you

ash: I wish you missed me too)

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr at [sleepy-skittles](https://sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com/).


End file.
